


honey come put your lips on mine

by catfox



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Arguing, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Best Friends, Dysfunctional Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, L9 kekw, M/M, Making Out, Surprise Kissing, can i write anything that isn't vaguely crackish, kinda dubious situations, no beta we die like og to bwipo's gp muhahaha, that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catfox/pseuds/catfox
Summary: And, it’s like, okay—on a good day Nemesis will grudgingly admit that he’s competitive, maybe a little too much. Then there is Selfmade, who for some reason has always had the uncanny ability to make his blood boil more than usual, and so the end result of it all is that Nemesis’ generally adequate sense of judgment takes a huge hit around Selfmade.That’s just it. Nemesis makes bad decisions. One of them is, apparently, kissing Selfmade.(or: instructions unclear, made out with jungler again, please help.)
Relationships: Oskar "Selfmade" Boderek/Tim "Nemesis" Lipovšek
Comments: 9
Kudos: 98





	honey come put your lips on mine

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: all fictional! title is from talk too much by coin
> 
> me: watches fnatic's reaction speed video  
> sm: there's no way nemi is gonna win this  
> nemi: he's the worst smiter in the team  
> me: hmmm

Shit gets weird the first time they kiss.

There’s no alcohol involved, no external factors for the blame to be shifted upon. It’s just Nemesis and Selfmade arguing over something; as usual, it starts with one tiny thing and ends up escalating into a full-blown fight, the kind with yelling and table-slamming and name-calling.

This time Selfmade makes some disparaging comment about Nemesis’ scaling Syndra after a particularly disastrous duo Q game, and Nemesis retorts with something about Selfmade spending more time flirting with his Discord fans than practicing his smite, so on and so forth, until...

Well, Nemesis doesn’t know how it happens, if he kissed Selfmade or if Selfmade kissed him. He remembers his frustration, shoving Selfmade a little too hard as he turns to stalk off, and he remembers Selfmade’s fingers around his wrist, pulling him back, and then all of a sudden, they’re kissing.

And, it’s like, okay—on a good day Nemesis will grudgingly admit that he’s competitive, maybe a little too much. Then there is Selfmade, who for some reason has always had the uncanny ability to make his blood boil more than usual, and so the end result of it all is that Nemesis’ generally adequate sense of judgment takes a huge hit around Selfmade.

That’s just it. Nemesis makes bad decisions. One of them is, apparently, kissing Selfmade.

It doesn’t even lead to anything, after. The kiss lasts about two seconds, and then Selfmade is jerking away from him like he’s been burned. Nemesis doesn’t even catch a glimpse of his expression before the jungler is turning on his heel and all but storming out the door.

Nemesis sits back down at his desk, and turns on League, ignoring the way Pete is gawking at him from outside the gaming room.

And that’s that.

* * *

Except, as previously mentioned, shit gets weird.

Not weird in a… bad way. More of a ‘ _okay I kissed my best friend now what’_ way.Which is kind of oddly specific, but hey, it’s what happened right? 

It’s not that things change. When Selfmade comes home that night, two hours into the early morning, smelling like alcohol and telltale traces of perfume, dripping rainwater all over the apartment, Nemesis still nags at him. Selfmade still tells him to fuck off. Nemesis still throws a towel at his head as hard as he can. Just normal stuff.

“Can you just fucking bring an umbrella out?” Nemesis sighs, watching as Selfmade reluctantly dries his hair with the towel. “What’s wrong with you? If you’re gonna get drunk and walk home in the rain, you might as well just not come home.”

It’s kind of mean and a little unnecessary, but Nemesis is annoyed. He’s always annoyed when Selfmade gets home like this, tipsy but not quite drunk, lipstick on his neck and the scent of flowers lingering on his skin. One of these days Selfmade is going to get himself in trouble, and then Nemesis will have to go bail him out because that’s what best friends are supposed to do, despite how dysfunctional their relationship might be.

Selfmade scowls, shoving his way past Nemesis and into the kitchen. “Next time I won’t, then. Since you don’t seem to want me back home anyway.”

He’s like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Nemesis rolls his eyes, even though Selfmade isn’t looking at him. “You’re so annoying. Can you just use your brain and think for once in your life—“

“You talk so much,” Selfmade interrupts, tossing the towel onto the kitchen chair. Nemesis opens his mouth to reprimand him for that, too. “You know that? You talk more than Bwipo.”

Nemesis glares at him, mildly insulted by that. No one talks more than Bwipo. “Well, I’ll stop talking when you stop being an asshole,” he says pettily, fully aware that he is also being an asshole, but he can’t stop. Nemesis has never been able to stop when it’s Selfmade. “And don’t just throw the towel there, I swear to god, I have to pick up after you every single time you come back like this—“

He really needs to have a conversation with Selfmade about _interrupting_ him. Because Nemesis would sometimes like to finish his sentences, and he can’t do that when Selfmade is pushing him against the kitchen counter, one hand dipping underneath Nemesis’ chin to tilt his face up.

“Fucking shut up,” Selfmade tells him, and then he kisses Nemesis.

So it’s the second time in a single day that Nemesis is kissing his best friend with no explanation whatsoever, and maybe this is the right time to start panicking about it, but he’s distracted. It’s just that Selfmade is kind of, objectively (or as objectively as one can get with their jungler’s tongue down their throat. Nemesis will have to ask Miky for tips on that one) a really good kisser. He’s obviously had practice, a fact that Nemesis has known since they were on MAD together in Spain, but _still._

Knowing is different from feeling it, and right now Nemesis is feeling the marble counter digging into his back and Selfmade’s fingers curling around his waist with enough strength to bruise and a funny kind of spinning sensation in his head, the kind he sometimes gets after stepping off those roller coasters that have a million loops and go backwards. It’s all a bit much.

But Nemesis is rapidly beginning to realize that he _likes_ this. The way the hard line of Selfmade’s body fits against his own, how Selfmade’s teeth nip at his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. It all feels so natural, and maybe that should be a bigger problem than Nemesis wants to think it is right now, but he’s honestly running out of air so instead, he pulls his mouth away from Selfmade’s.

Selfmade is breathing harder than usual too, a fact that gives Nemesis a glowy kind of proud sensation in his chest. Distantly, he notes that Selfmade looks pretty good like this, lips red and bitten, cheeks flushed pink, eyes hazy as he meets Nemesis’ gaze.

“Well,” Selfmade drawls slowly, a devilish little smirk playing on his stupidly, unfairly handsome face, “that made you shut up.”

“Bite me,” Nemesis snaps back. Selfmade lifts a mocking eyebrow at him.

“Where?” He says, tauntingly, fingers trailing from Nemesis’ waist up to his neck, settling just over his pulse point. “Here?”

Heat floods through Nemesis’ entire system, and he can’t help the involuntary shudder that runs up his spine when Selfmade digs his pointer finger into the spot, just a little. “Fuck you,” Nemesis manages.

“At least buy me dinner first,” Selfmade hums back, and then he’s—he’s stepping away from Nemesis?

Look, Nemesis is no expert in the fields of love and sex and making out with friends in kitchens, but that’s not _exactly_ what he’d been expecting Selfmade to do. Even though, admittedly, it’s probably the smartest course of action and Nemesis just really lacks self-control.

Maybe he does need to get laid.

“I’m gonna go shower, okay?” Selfmade doesn’t look at him, not waiting for a reply as he turns and starts striking out of the kitchen. “See ya, Nemi.”

He’s gone before Nemesis can react or even come up with some witty retort. What a cheater.

It’s only when Nemesis collapses into one of the kitchen chairs, utterly exhausted by whatever the fuck just happened, that he realizes Selfmade took the towel with him.

* * *

So it stops being a ‘ _okay I kissed my best friend now what’_ thing and starts being more ‘ _I kissed my best friend and I’ll fucking do it again’._ Because that’s normal, now, apparently.

The funny thing is, it only happens when they’re fighting about something or the other. Coincidentally, or maybe not, they’ve started fighting a lot more now too, not just about League. Selfmade bitches about Nemesis ordering mushrooms on their pizza; Nemesis complains when Selfmade steals his caps and forgets to put them back. Somehow, some way, they always end up in screaming matches which usually devolve into them making out furiously against whichever hard surface happens to be nearby.

It’s a pretty good stress reliever, Nemesis has to admit. A more creative outlet for his frustration besides calling Selfmade every Slovenian curse word under the sun, though he still does that too.

It gets to the point where Mithy, looking intensely awkward, pulls Nemesis aside one day after scrims and asks if he’s okay.

“Yes?” Nemesis squints at him, thoroughly confused and really just wanting to start his stream. “Why would I not be?”

Mithy coughs. “Uh, well. I’ve been hearing from a few team members that you and Selfmade have been fighting a lot more recently—“

Nemesis nods, impatiently. If he starts now he can play at least five games until he has to leave for dinner with Crownshot and Miky.

“—and also, Pete says he walked in on the two of you, um, making out in the content room—“

Fuck.

* * *

“And then he said he didn’t care if anyone saw us, which is stupid, right? So we argued about that and…”

“... and then you made out,” Miky finishes, tone dry as the Shuriman desert. “Which seems to be the way most of these stories end.”

Crownshot practically cackles, as he wolfs down another forkful of his beloved pancakes. “This is hilarious, by the way.”

“No, it’s not,” Nemesis answers pointedly, angrily slurping on his mango smoothie. “Can you guys be useful, please?”

“What’s the big deal?” Crownshot shrugs, reaching for his glass of water. “It’s perfectly normal to make out with your jungler on a regular basis. Right, Miky?” He nudges the support, grinning brightly.

To his credit, Miky doesn’t even blush, just lifts his eyebrows in response. “I must say it’s pretty therapeutic,” he admits. “And you save the time and effort you would’ve spent on, like, finding a stranger.”

“See? All good things!” Crownshot says in triumph, patting Nemesis on the back. “Just keep on getting it.”

Briefly, Nemesis considers getting new friends, instead. But just briefly, because these guys already know too many of his secrets. “I’m not _getting_ anything,” he sighs, loudly. “We just kiss. That’s all.”

“That’s what Miky told us last year, and look at him hooking up with Jankos now. They’re practically dating.”

Miky does kind of blush, this time. “Okay, can we make fun of Tim without dragging me down as collateral damage?”

“Honestly, I’m having a pretty good time,” Crownshot replies easily.

“The _point_ is,” Miky continues, ignoring him, “that being friends with benefits, or even anything more, is a normal thing. But you guys should probably talk about it. Without, you know, yelling at each other.”

Nemesis thinks about this. It makes sense. He doesn’t like it.

“But what if we just didn’t talk about it?” He offers. 

Miky gives him a deadpan look. It’s all the nonverbal answer Nemesis needs, but Crownshot still decides to voice his thoughts:

“Well, then it’s happening anyway. Have you seen the way Oskar looks at your as—“

“ _Crownie.”_

* * *

Spoiler alert: Nemesis does not talk about it with Selfmade.

He means to, he really does. He even thinks about when he’d bring it up (that very night) and where (living room, neutral location) and how (“Hey Oskar, maybe we should talk about all the completely platonic making out we’ve been doing lately.”). 

But when Nemesis gets home, there’s a distinctly feminine-looking pink coat hanging beside the front door, a pair of high heels set neatly underneath it, and high-pitched giggles echoing from Selfmade’s room, and—Nemesis suddenly just isn’t in the mood. He practically stomps down the hallway towards his room, inexplicably annoyed at the floral scent permeating the air, and slams his door shut without strictly meaning to. 

It’s not like they’re not allowed to bring _guests_ home, so long as they don’t disturb the other inhabitants of the apartment or interfere with their practice. Nemesis doesn’t, but Selfmade does and it really shouldn’t be a surprise anymore. Selfmade is a big boy and he can do whatever he wants. It’s never bothered Nemesis before, so why should it now?

But it does, though. It stays in the back of his mind throughout the whole night, when he’s tossing and turning trying to fall asleep, and even till the next morning when Nemesis walks into the kitchen to find dirty bowls still in the sink.

Usually he wouldn’t make such a big fuss about it, mostly because it’s before noon and who can really be arsed about anything in the morning of an off day, but for some reason the sight lights some kind of fire in the pit of Nemesis’ stomach and he feels like picking a fight. So he marches straight to Selfmade’s room, against his better judgment, and bangs on the jungler’s door.

“Oskar!” 

It takes a little while for Selfmade to answer, rubbing at his eyes blearily and looking confused. “What do you want?” He mumbles, leaning against the doorframe as he yawns into his fist.

Nemesis gives him the deadliest glare he can muster at eight in the morning. “You didn’t wash your dishes last night,” he intones, enunciating every syllable with care, as if it’ll make Selfmade see the magnitude of his error.

Evidently, it doesn’t work. Selfmade lifts an eyebrow incredulously. “You woke me up at whatever the fuck o’clock to tell me that?” He demands, apparently much more awake now. “Are you sick or something?” For emphasis, he puts his palm on Nemesis’ forehead like he’s checking for a fever.

Nemesis bats his hand away, none too gently. “Well if you’d cleaned up instead of getting distracted by your flavor of the week in there,” he nods towards Selfmade’s room, “maybe I wouldn’t have to.”

Honestly, Nemesis is irrationally irritated. He thinks it might not entirely be because of the dishes, but what does he know?

Selfmade frowns, seeming even more confused. “The fuck are you talking about?” He kicks his door open wider, revealing the inside of his room… which is decidedly empty of any other human being. Huh. “There’s no one here.”

A pause. Nemesis considers the situation. “But there was,” he points out helpfully. “I saw her coat and stuff. Didn’t you—“

“Wasn’t feeling it,” Selfmade shrugs casually, as if that’s normal for him. It’s not, judging by the number of years Nemesis has known him. “She left. After you came back.”

Nemesis didn’t know that Selfmade even _realized_ when he’d gotten home. This whole conversation appears to be becoming increasingly pointless. It’s all very puzzling. “Oh.”

Selfmade snorts. “Yeah, _oh._ Can I go back to sleep now? Why the hell are you awake anyway?”

Because he hadn’t slept, but Nemesis isn’t about to say that out loud. It seems he doesn’t need to, because Selfmade suddenly narrows his eyes, gaze boring into Nemesis’. “Wait.” He pushes himself off the doorframe, giving Nemesis an accusatory look. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

One of the cons, Nemesis thinks, of being best friends with someone is that they eventually learn to read you like a book, no matter how much you fight them. 

“Jesus Christ, you fucking idiot,” Selfmade mutters, and then he’s taking Nemesis’ hand and pulling him into the room. Caught off guard, Nemesis goes, almost blindly. 

Selfmade closes the door behind him and then points imperiously at his own bed, sheets messy and pillows all over the place. Nemesis resists the urge to straighten them. “Lie down,” Selfmade all but orders, like he’s talking to a pet puppy.

Now, Nemesis might be sleep-deprived but he still has _pride._ He frowns, and crosses his arms. “Make me,” he retorts, challengingly.

He regrets it, a millisecond later: it’s dark in here with the curtains closed tight to dissuade any rays of sunshine from illuminating the room, but Nemesis can still see the dangerous little smile that flickers across Selfmade’s face. “You want me to _make_ you get in my bed?” Selfmade purrs, a slight edge to his voice as he takes a step towards Nemesis, almost predatorily. “Sure about that, Nemi?”

It’s actually just unfair how good some people look in ratty old sweats and a T-shirt. Stupid goddamn handsome jackass. Nemesis hates him, and this is a terrible idea, but he’s already dug his grave. “I’d like to see you try,” Nemesis says, staunch.

Maybe Nemesis should’ve expected it—maybe he does expect it, but lets it happen anyway. One second he’s standing beside Selfmade’s bed, the next he’s being practically yanked down onto it and Selfmade’s chest is pressed to his back, arms wrapped tight around Nemesis’ waist.

They’re spooning. Nemesis’ jungler is spooning him. Miky never mentioned this part. What the _fuck._

“Don’t bother trying to escape.” He hears Selfmade stifle a yawn against the nape of his neck, and it gives Nemesis goosebumps, the warmth of Selfmade’s breath tickling his skin. “You’ll never make it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Nemesis replies, but even he knows there’s zero bite to his tone. He’s pretty comfortable right now; the bed smells like Selfmade, autumn leaves and sandalwood, and he can feel Selfmade’s heartbeat thumping steadily against his back. It’s almost enough to lull Nemesis to sleep already, even though it’d felt like the world’s most difficult task earlier in his own bed. “I bet I could make it to the door, at least.”

Selfmade laughs, and it vibrates through Nemesis’ entire body like a pleasant buzz. He can barely keep his eyes open anymore. “I’ll get you back,” Selfmade answers confidently. “And then I’ll tie you to the bed.”

Nemesis can’t help the way he shivers at that. Selfmade must feel it, because he tightens his grip on Nemesis’ waist. “Oh, you like that?” he teases. “Don’t get too excited. I’m just trying to get you to sleep.”

“Fuck off,” Nemesis murmurs groggily. Shit, this bed must be magic or something. It’s _working._ “Just wait till I… till I wake up. Then you’ll know what I can do.”

It’s a load of empty threats, especially considering Selfmade goes to the gym and Nemesis really doesn’t, but it makes Selfmade chuckle again. “I’ll be waiting. Go to sleep, Nemi.”

And despite everything, in pure spite of the fact that Nemesis is absolutely not supposed to be here right now and Selfmade is being weirdly _nice_ and it’s all just fucking confusing, Nemesis still sleeps better than he has in weeks.

* * *

“Can you get your _fucking_ elbow out of my rib cage.”

“Then move your goddamn leg, you asshole.”

“That’s your leg, dumbass.”

“You think I don’t know where my own fucking leg is?”

“Yes, ‘cause it’s fucking kneeing me in the dick—“

And they’re back.

* * *

It ends with them making out in Selfmade’s bed at three in the afternoon, because Nemesis gets pissed by whatever the fuck they were arguing about and starts scolding Selfmade about the dishes again; Selfmade rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up, then makes him shut up when Nemesis refuses to, and it’s not like Nemesis minds, so yeah, there’s that.

* * *

**Nemesis:** instructions unclear, made out with jungler again, please help.

 **Mikyx:** … 

**Crownshot:** lmao

* * *

As all things generally do, it has to reach a head at some point.

In this case, it’s the spring finals against G2 where they get 3-0’d and the mood is somber in the office, despite Pete’s best efforts at cheering them up. Nemesis leaves in the evening with a sour taste in his mouth and Selfmade tagging along silently behind him. He wants nothing more than to go home and sleep, possibly forever.

But when he does get home, he realizes that the lights are still on. It couldn’t have been him, because he left earlier in the morning than Selfmade did. And for some reason, any reason at all, Nemesis snaps.

“Can you just turn the fucking lights off when you leave?” He grumbles, turning to glare at Selfmade, who doesn’t even bother looking up from where he’s shoving his shoes into the cabinet.

“Can you play a fucking useful champ?” Selfmade retorts, and okay, ouch. That was a low blow, but luckily Nemesis is in the kind of mood where he wants to fight, wants to lash out, wants to scream and shout and give as good as he gets.

“Maybe if you learned how to hit a Gragas barrel,” Nemesis counters, and that’s just it, it’s like an explosion, a dam breaking, a tidal wave of pent-up emotions and fury and _everything_.

Selfmade stalks towards him, his normally clear blue eyes dark with anger, his lips twisted into a scowl. For a moment Nemesis thinks they might actually physically throw punches, for the first time over the course of their friendship; it feels like the tension in the air is boiling, about to reach breaking point, and it’s making him all jittery.

But instead of punching him, Selfmade kisses him, and maybe Nemesis should’ve been expecting that instead.

There’s something different about the way Selfmade kisses him now. It’s fire and frustration, harsh enough to bruise Nemesis’ mouth, almost like he wants to make Nemesis bleed for all the hurt they’ve gone through today. And Nemesis relishes it, wants _more_ , wants it to sting and hurt, wants to burn with Selfmade until they’re nothing but ashes scattering into the wind.

The rest of the night goes like this:

They stumble their way to Selfmade’s bed, lips still locked together like the world will end if they pull apart. Nemesis trips, once on the way, and Selfmade catches him without missing a beat.

Nemesis ends up dizzy and gasping for air, his jacket and jersey and sweatpants falling onto the floor in tandem; Selfmade’s mouth ghosting across every inch of skin he can get to, tongue and teeth making their mark everywhere they can reach.

At some point in the night, Nemesis whines Selfmade’s name, high in his throat, and Selfmade laughs, terribly smug. “Cute,” he mumbles, but Nemesis only barely hears it, too distracted by Selfmade’s fingers between his thighs.

And still, the fire doesn’t burn out—it keeps blazing, and blazing, until Nemesis is breathless and thoughtless, a mess of jelly limbs and flushed skin underneath Selfmade; he digs his fingernails into Selfmade’s shoulders, raking red lines down his back, and practically _pleads_ for more, for him to keep going—

“Fuck, Nemi,” Selfmade growls, voice a husky baritone, and it’s music to Nemesis’ ears, the kind of incredibly addictive song he wants to play on repeat every night of his life.

They fall apart, again and again, wrapped up in nothing and each other; and for once, just once, Nemesis forgets about the game.

* * *

**Nemesis:** instructions unclear, slept with jungler, please help.

 **Mikyx:**????

 **Mikyx:** hopeless

 **Crownshot:** OMEGALUL

* * *

Rekkles leans over to tap Nemesis on the shoulder, a tiny grimace on his face.

“What?” Nemesis says, preoccupied with champ select. His autofilled botlane is already arguing. Great.

“Look, uh.” Rekkles sounds like he really does not want to be having this conversation. To be fair, he usually just doesn’t like conversations, in general. “I know you’re old enough to be safe and all that now, but…”

Nemesis frowns. His ADC picked Soraka. Looks like a dodge. 

“... I just wanted to tell you that there’s a hickey on your neck.”

Wait. What?

Rekkles looks increasingly like he wishes he were elsewhere in the world, perhaps a beach in the Bahamas. “Several of them,” he manages, before pointedly putting his headphones back on. “Just letting you know.”

Nemesis shrinks into his seat, pulling the collar of his FNATIC shirt up like it’ll help. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing. His face feels warm. “Um, thanks,” he mumbles, and Rekkles nods, and then they don’t mention it anymore.

When Selfmade walks in half an hour later and sits down at his desk, Nemesis kicks him as subtly as he can and hisses, “Hoodie. Gimme.”

Selfmade opens his mouth, most likely to ask Nemesis what his fucking problem is or something, but then he catches sight of Nemesis’ neck and grins, obediently pulling his hoodie off and tossing it over.

“Nice.”

“Shut up.”

* * *

And then, all of a sudden, like a train screeching to a halt, it stops.

It just stops, with no rhyme or reason. They don’t talk about it or anything, not that they’re very good at the whole communication thing in the first place. Nemesis only realizes midway through the off season, when they’re arguing about what to order for dinner and Nemesis eventually ends up ignoring Selfmade and getting kebabs instead of sushi anyway; Selfmade rolls his eyes and calls him selfish and walks away.

At this point, they’ve arrived in a timeline where it’s weird that Selfmade _isn’t_ kissing Nemesis in the middle of a fight, or even trying to distract Nemesis with his mouth so he can get his way—it should be more of a cause for concern than it is, but Nemesis has always been of the opinion that if something isn’t broken, you don’t fix it.

And they’re not broken. Not anymore than they were before, anyway. There’s nothing new _to_ break.

So he eats alone in his room, watching DrDisrespect and stubbornly ignoring the sound of the main door outside slamming shut.

* * *

In the summer, they lose. And lose again. And again.

It sucks, being in a slump like this, especially when the Internet exists seemingly just to facilitate haters and trolls and Reddit analysts who all have too much to say on the subject. Nemesis tries his best not to care, but he still gives in and deletes Twitter, hides from his Twitch stream for a few days.

He plays solo Q just about every waking minute that they’re not scrimming; the whole team even collectively decides to forgo their mid-split break to practice more. It seems to work, their teamwork looks better every day, but it still feels like there’s a dark cloud hanging over his head, threatening to pour rain at any second.

At some point during the week, Nemesis is sitting at his desk and staring blankly at his queue timer. He hasn’t moved for about twelve hours, his brain is kind of numb and his eyes are starting to burn in a rather uncomfortable way, but he’s been on a loss streak and every time the word ‘Defeat’ flashes onto his screen in bright taunting red, Nemesis thinks _just one more._

He’s sleepy, though, exhausted from playing League all day. He can barely even keep his eyelids open. So when his queue pops, fifteen minutes in, Nemesis misses the click completely.

Fuck. He frowns, and presses ‘Play Again’, except—

“Hey!” He protests, when a hand reaches over from his right to take over his mouse and close the client entirely. “What the fuck?”

Selfmade gives him a deadpan look. “Stop playing, idiot. You’re ruining solo Q.”

Nemesis thinks that even half-asleep, he’s still better than some of the morons climbing the ladder. “You’re playing too,” he points out, aware that he sounds like a little kid and not caring.

Without even flinching, Selfmade closes his own client. “Now I’m not,” he counters, then gets up, stretching his arms lightly above his head. “Come on.”

Huh? Nemesis blinks at him, bemused. “What?” He ventures, carefully.

Selfmade sighs loudly. “I knew your brain wasn’t working already. Let’s go get dinner. I know you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Nemesis thinks about it. He hadn’t even realized that; how did Selfmade notice?

“Should we ask them or…” Nemesis asks tentatively, indicating the rest of their teammates experiencing the various stages of solo Q around them—Bwipo in denial (“It’s fine, we can still win this”), Rekkles bargaining (“Okay, if my mid laner stops inting I can do something”) and Hyli in acceptance (he’s just staring, dead-eyed, as his ADC gets hooked for what appears to be the nth time).

Selfmade snorts, already heading for the door. “I’m not paying for all of them,” he calls over his shoulder. “Hurry up.”

Nemesis grabs his jacket and scurries after him. “Wait, are you paying for me then?” He wonders, still a little confused but on board. 

“You eat like a bird, it’s basically nothing.” Selfmade shoulders the main door open and lets Nemesis walk through first. “Don’t expect it too much though, I just feel bad for you today.”

In fact, Nemesis doesn’t remember Selfmade ever offering to pay for his food before. Weird.

They get McDonald’s, because it’s about the only thing still open at this hour, and sit in one of the booths to eat. Nemesis steals Selfmade’s fries when he’s finished his own, fully expecting Selfmade to scowl and swat him away; instead, the jungler just rolls his eyes and nudges the tray towards him.

And don’t get Nemesis wrong—he’s hardly an expert on the topic, but the way Selfmade is looking at him now, even with the ugly fluorescent lighting bouncing off Nemesis’ pale skin and accentuating the vaguely vampirical look that most professional gamers have, with one of Selfmade’s black caps pulled low over his forehead to hide the messy outcrop of blonde hair Nemesis hasn’t had time to tame recently—there’s a funny little _affectionate_ smile on Selfmade’s face as he watches Nemesis munch on his fries, and it kinda, sorta feels like a date.

“You’re being strangely nice today,” Nemesis observes, sipping at his vanilla milkshake. 

Selfmade shrugs, crossing his arms as he leans back into his side of the booth. “Guess I felt bad,” he says offhandedly. “You know, for all the kissing you and stuff.”

For some reason, Nemesis’ stomach does a weird backflip. “You felt bad?” He says cautiously.

“Well, yeah.” Selfmade hums, tapping his fingers against the marble tabletop distractedly. “It was like… I was using you, right? And you didn’t want to, but—“

“Wait, wait,” Nemesis interrupts, because _what?_ “I never said I didn’t want to.”

Something like surprise flickers across Selfmade’s face. “Why would you want to?” He questions, seeming genuinely bewildered.

 _Why would he…_ Nemesis doesn’t know why. It’s kind of frustrating. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Why did you?”

Selfmade laughs, but it’s awkward and forced. “Honestly, for a while I thought I might be in love with you—“

Oh. _Oh._

“You’re in love with me?” Nemesis repeats, forgetting to lower his volume out of the pure shock value of it all. Selfmade looks startled.

“I said _might_ , and _thought,_ like past tense,” he points out. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because…”

“Because what?” It feels a bit like Nemesis is underwater, holding his breath, waiting for something to drop, though he doesn’t know what.

“It wouldn’t work.” Selfmade shakes his head decidedly, like he’s thought about all this before. “We fight too much, right? Besides, you don’t even like me like that.”

“Did you just decide all this by yourself?” Nemesis demands, inexplicably irritated. “You didn’t even say anything.”

Selfmade frowns, now looking a little annoyed himself. Good. It was getting a bit too weird. “Would it be different if I did say something? Unless you’re about to tell me that you love me too—“

“I love you,” Nemesis blurts, and he doesn’t _mean_ to, but once the words are out there it hits him, for real: _ohhh._

“You’re just saying that to piss me off,” Selfmade says, his brow furrowing, sounding unsure even himself. Nemesis glares at him.

“You’re stupid,” he intones.

Selfmade looks offended. “ _You’re_ stupid,” he retorts childishly. “It’s not like you told me.”

“Why didn’t _you_ tell me?” Nemesis retaliates, exasperated.

“Well I’m telling you now! I love you!”

“Fine! I love you too!”

They sit there for another moment, glowering at each other across the table, until a tiny nervous teenage voice cuts through the tension:

“Uh, that’s cool and all, but we’re closing now.”

* * *

“Can you fucking hit a stun?”

“If you’re so good, why don’t you play mid lane then?”

“I would, if you knew anything about jungling—“

“At least I know how to press fucking smite and not leave Baron with 13 HP—“

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

Honestly, nothing changes after they start dating.

* * *

**Nemesis:** wait, did you guys know i was in love with oskar 

**Crownshot:** obviously

 **Mikyx:** yep

 **Nemesis:**.

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell how i got tired and just gave up on a proper ending ahahaha
> 
> twitter on my profile <3


End file.
